


Five Times Phil Coulson Died (Two Times He Would've Been Okay Dying) and One Time He Was Happy To Be Alive

by Boom



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5(+2)+1, A Little Back Story For Giggles, BAMF Phil Coulson, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Phil Keeps Dying, Rimming, Sexy Times, Smut, a couple good ones, a few bad experiences, a little homophobia, did I mention dying?, dying, experiences that is, other stuff happens too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boom/pseuds/Boom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin... Or Phil Has Bad Allergies, Bad Luck, and Bad Timing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Phil Coulson Died (Two Times He Would've Been Okay Dying) and One Time He Was Happy To Be Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Five Times Phil Coulson Died (Two Times He Would've Been Okay Dying) and One Time He Was Happy To Be Alive (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475350) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



>>> 0

Phil was eight seconds from being two minutes old when he died the first time. It wasn’t graphic or interesting exactly, many newborns get wrapped in their umbilical chords during their mad dash to enter the world. When he came out, grey going on blue, the nurse (a portly woman with nimble fingers) cut the chord, whisked him away and had him crying in minutes. His death wasn’t even catalogued.

>>> 6

His second death wasn’t catalogued either. He was six when it happened, on the family’s First Big Vacation since Phil could remember. He and his younger sister splashed in the surf with their father not far off, smiling with his arms crossed, going no farther than ankle deep.

Phil didn’t know why he started screaming, just that it hurt. He thrashed in the waves, clawing at the water as if he could get away from the pain in his legs. His father had hauled him up by the scruff of his soaked shirt, his other arm wrapped protectively around his daughter who was crying in confusion. He half dragged half threw his son onto the sand, screaming, “Ellen get the car!” while Phil’s mom was screaming, “Phil, look at his legs!” until Phil’s dad told her to, “Shut up and get in the damn car!” to which Phil Senior knew he would pay for later with long foot rubs, expensive dinners, and probably that dress in the window of Burdines.

The ride to the hospital seemed to take hours instead of twenty minutes. Phil’s mom drove like a bat out of hell, slamming on the break only slightly less frequently that she gunned it while Phil’s dad cradled his son to his chest, talking into his hair, “It’s alright PJ, we’re almost there buddy, hold on…”

“Oh God Phil his legs—“

“Just keep driving. Look at me Peej, c’mon, keep your eyes open. That’s my boy, hey!”

Phil watched his dad smile. He was having trouble breathing. His legs were swollen three times their normal size with huge ugly lines turning purple against his bright red skin. Through the fuzziness and slowly closing darkness, Phil found the whole experience kind of fascinating…

By the time Phil Senior burst through the emergency room doors, screaming for a doctor, his son had been dead in his arms for seven seconds. It took eight seconds for a doctor to rush over with a stethoscope and shout for help. It took 12 seconds to prep and inject the adrenaline, and it took six more for Phil to take his first breath. He was then given epinephrine and a bed for the next 24 hours.

Philip J Coulson was diagnosed with an acute allergy to jellyfish.

He never really liked the beach after that.

>>> 17

Ten years later Phil wished he had died by jellyfish. He stood in the middle of the locker room, a towel around his waist and dripping water from his hair. The room was silent, every eye on him.

“Well?” Joey Barker demanded, getting right in Phil’s space, “Are you or not?”

“I—“ Phil took a step back, his mind like a panicked rat in a trap. He looked at all the faces around him, some disgusted, some embarrassed, some not meeting his eyes. It was the question he’d feared for months, years really, rolling around in his own head like some sort of sick toy he couldn’t stop playing with. He told himself he didn’t know, it was just a phase, an idea. Something he would grow out of like his Captain America fixation.

Only he hadn’t grown out of that just yet.

“Fucking Christ, he is!” Joey’s eyes went wide with horror and revulsion. Phil shrank into himself, feeling dirty, his face heating in shame and self-loathing. He wanted to curl into a ball and die. His teammates, boys he grew up with, avoided making eye contact, rushing through the rest of their after practice routines and leaving without a word.

The next day he was off the baseball team, sited for “misconduct”. That afternoon, he was ambushed by kids only the day before he would’ve called his friends. He arrived home late that night, bruised and limping, but not broken. He made himself a few promises as he explained what happened to his parents at the kitchen table, dinner cold in front of him: he never wore glasses again, he never let anyone but his family call him PJ, and he learned to keep his emotions to himself.

After graduation, he enlisted in the army.

>>> 22

Phil didn’t remember the bomb going off. One minute, he was just taking a leak, minding his own business, maybe humming something, and the next he was flying through the air, landing hard on his face in a thorny bush. His first thought after the stars abated was that it was just his luck landing in the one bit of vegetation in this God forsaken desert. Then his adrenaline spiked and he hopped to his feet, flicking the safety off his rifle, Peggy.

He found Nick first, just as the bullets started flying. His commanding officer’s face was covered in blood, his breathing shallow, but his one visible eye still sharp.

“Coulson—“

“Sir,” Phil acknowledged, returning fire. Fury made to grab his arm, but Phil shook him off, snatching up the handle on his vest and dragging him over the nearest hill before returning to the now very on fire hum-v they’d arrived in and grabbing Buchannan and Jacobs.

“Coulson!” Fury tried again, putting all his command into the single word as he returned fire, picking off the shooters one by one.

“One more, Sir,” And Phil was over the hill again, all but diving into the flames, pulling a paralyzed but screaming Thatcher out the front window. They weren’t ten feet away before the vehicle exploded, throwing Phil once again on his face. He scrambled to his feet and Thatcher’s side, trying to shake the grit from his eyes as he checked her pulse. It was weak, but there. Relief flooded through him as he crested the hill one last time, watching Jacobs patch up Buchannan.

When Jacobs turned to Phil, however, his eyes became the size of saucers, “Jesus Christ, Coulson!”

“It’s alright,” Phil said, pulling Thatcher unceremoniously over to the group, “She’s just unconscious, but I think she’s paralyzed.”

Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, Phil was having a little trouble breathing. He should really work on his stamina if he was out of breath just from climbing that stupid hill.

“No!” Jacobs sounded strangled, “The fuck is in your stomach?!”

Phil blinked then looked down at himself. Sure enough, there was a shard of something too bloody to identify sticking out of his gut.

“Oh,” He said, surprised, “That kinda hurts.”

Then he dropped, Fury only catching him at the last second.

Phil died for 13 minutes in surgery. He woke up two days later, Fury reading in the bed next to him, looking bored.

“Where’s your eye?” Phil asked.

Nick shrugged, “Lost it.”

Phil grunted like it was a perfectly acceptable explanation. Which it was.

“You received a medal while you were out,” Nick continued, not looking up from his book.

“I’m honored,” Phil dead panned. Nick snorted. Both of them knew he would never see that medal. Not until the mission was declassified. If either of them lived that long.

“Speaking of honor,” Nick turned the page, “We’ve been discharged.”

“What?” Phil gritted his teeth as he accidently pulled at his stiches, “Why?”

“Relax Coulson,” There was a hint of a smile playing on his lips, “We’re moving up in the world.”

>>> 36

Phil was on the good stuff. He could tell because he was smiling. He never woke up smiling. Not unless he was on the good stuff. His eyes tended to wander when he was on the good stuff. He’d been told by Nick on many occasions that he also tended not to blink, which was definitely creepy. Phil forced himself to blink while he was thinking about it, his eyes roaming over the hospital room’s tope walls (tope is soothing), the machines all humming and beeping contentedly, Clint asleep in the chair next to him…

This time, he didn’t have to think about blinking. He hadn’t expected that. Clint jerked awake and Phil wondered idly if he’d said that out loud. 

Phil smiled at Clint. Clint did not smile back.

“Morning,” Phil tried brightly, though he wasn’t sure if it was really morning, but Clint had just woken up so he figured it counted. The archer, however, didn’t respond. Phil knew he should feel awkward in the silence, but he couldn’t bring himself to it. His eyes kept roaming, his smile still shining.

“You died.”

The statement brought Phil’s eyes back to Clint, who stared straight at him, unblinking.

“I got better,” He pointed out. When did Clint’s eyes get that blue? They looked bluer than blue. The bluest of blue. Clint was shaking his head, trying to collect his thoughts.

“No,” He tried again, “Coulson, you died. In my arms. You almost bled out—“

“Are you okay?” For some reason this was a very, very important question. Something even in his drugged up state he knew he needed to confirm.

“Wh—? Yeah, I’m fine but—“

“Oh good,” Phil relaxed, his smile returning, “Very, very good. The goodest.”

That got a quirked lip from his archer that disappeared all too quickly and Phil didn’t like that. Not at all.

“Coulson—“

“Phil,” Phil said, “Philip James Coulson. My family calls me PJ. You can call me Phil.”

Silence greeted this proclamation so Phil continued, trying to explain through the drugs, “It’s okay, I bled on you. It’s legal now.” Only that wasn’t the word he was looking for…

“Legal?” Clint asked, but the smile was back and really, that’s all Phil wanted out of life.

“Yes,” Phil nodded confidently as if Clint got it, “Legal. We are now Clint and Phil.”

“Clint and Phil, huh?” Clint reclined back in his too hard chair, his arms were crossed in that way he did when he was trying to appear comfortable but really wasn’t.

“Yes,” Phil said. The drugs were wearing off a little, but he decided to push his luck anyway, “We should have dinner.”

Phil watched with interest as Clint’s entire body tightened, the smile becoming empty.

“They really do have you on the good stuff, don’t they?” He joked. Phil frowned. A real frown. Not a twitch, not a raised eyebrow, but a knock down, drag out frown. He hadn’t shown this much emotion since high school. He was also still relatively stoned and in no mood for games.

“Is that a no?” He asked, his head tipping slightly, “Because it can be. I won’t hold it against you—“

“No!” Clint seemed conflicted, “You’re just—“

“Your handler? Recovering from some broken ribs? Old?” Phil smiled, “High?”

Clint huffed out a laugh, not meeting Phil’s eyes.

“Hey,” Phil reached over and tapped Clint on the temple, like it was the archer’s idea, “Tell you what: I’m gonna go back to sleep and you go do Barton things and we’ll talk when I’m less medicated.”

Clint nodded silently and Phil dropped his hand. Closing his eyes. The last thing he felt before he passed out were calloused fingers sliding around his hand and maybe, if he concentrated really hard, the faint brush of lips on his forehead.

There first date was pizza and a walk.

It was fantastic.

>>> 38

Phil didn’t even get the door fully closed before Clint was on him. He pressed firmly against Phil, pinning the older man to the door and kissed him like he was air, touched him like he was glass. Phil ran his hands down the archer’s sides, smiling at the little shiver the action elicited. They moved as one down the hall, clothes shedding as they went. Shoes and shirts, Phil’s tie and Clint’s socks, were all dropped as they stumbled along, keeping contact the whole time. Phil sat heavily on what he’d recently caught himself thinking of as their bed, just as Clint shucked his pants and briefs, climbing up Phil’s body to kiss him hungrily. It wasn’t unusual for them not to talk, to just feel each other after a particularly difficult op. Especially when they were separated, like the one Phil had just returned from. Clint didn’t like not being able to watch his handler’s back.

Truth be told, Phil felt the same way.

Phil took hold of Clint’s neck, but was gently brushed away. Phil got the hint. This was Clint’s show. The archer explored his body, finding every new mark, bruise and sore muscle. Clint nudged Phil to roll over, pressing strong hands into stiff muscles and continuing to kiss down his handler’s back, stripping away his slacks and boxers in one fluid motion.

Clint kneaded up Phil’s leg, spending and exorbitant amount of time on his upper thigh before switching, giving the other leg the same treatment. Then he moved back to the shoulders and down, working out weeks of stress with deft fingers. Finally Clint sat back, running his fingers over old scars and soon to be new ones. Not touching Phil’s left side, because even he noticed the older man was favoring it.

He ran a single finger down Phil’s spine to the top of his crack, kissing the spot before slowly licking his way back up. Phil shivered under him a Clint gently bit his shoulder, one hand holding Phil’s above them, the other moving back down to slide between his ass. Phil groaned into the pillow, pressing back into the touch. Clint brushed further down, tracing then cupping the other man’s ball, eliciting another moan for his effort. Clint smiled, kissing Phil behind his ear, moving back down to his ass, massaging with both hands before ducking down for an experimental lick. Phil hissed, his entire body seizing, then relaxing when Clint did it again. Clint loved turning Phil into a live wire. Every little jump and twitch and huff of breath making his own erection just a little bit harder to bare, but he could do this forever. Phil was a hard man to pin down so when he did, Clint liked to take full advantage.

Finally, Clint let Phil turn over, his erection almost horizontal, tiny beads of precum sliding from the tip. Clint reached for Phil’s face, kissing him breathless, but failing to stifle a groan as their erections brushed. Clint once again ducked past Phil’s waist and stroked his tongue along the flushed purple vein. Phil choked, his hands wrapped tight in the sheets under him, fighting not to buck into the touch. Clint helped, pressing Phil’s hips into the mattress as the archer took him down in one stroke.

“Fuck!” Phil gritted his teeth, his eyes screwed shut, “Clint! Oh shit—“

Clint’s mouth was gone, but Phil refused to open his eyes, sure if he did he’d be done. He pinched the base of his cock, trying to calm at least a little, but his hand was once again brushed away and a condom rolled on. Clint had done a hasty prep, making Phil bite back a cry as he slowly sank onto the older man, until Phil was sitting up, clutching Clint like he would die without him. Slowly they adjusted and Clint started moving, coaxing Phil into a kiss and movement of his own.

Phil held the younger man, raking his fingers through his hair and down his back, pressing kisses into his flesh until his rhythm broke. His breathing became harsh and Clint was babbling nonsensically in his ear, “Shit Phil ohmygod I missed you oh fuck…“

The only warning Phil gave was a bite, then he was coming, groaning and panting into Clint’s shoulder, his blunt nails digging into the other man’s back. They were still for a moment, both gasping and shaking before Phil brought up and trembling hand to Clint’s positively leaking erection and gave it a few strong strokes. Clint cried out, stifling the noise with a deep, greedy kiss.

When Phil could have comprehensive thoughts again, he mused how death by orgasm didn’t sound like such a bad way to go…

>>> 41

It was official: Phil was dying. He was positive this time. The scepter had definitely gone through his heart, maybe punctured a lung, he wasn’t sure, but he was dying, the cold seeping into his toes and fingers. Well, he thought for some God knows reason, at least I got to meet Captain America. Except that was the very worst thing to think because now his mind was spinning towards Clint— no, Barton. Loki had Barton, the assassin, the spy. The warrior. Not his beautiful Clint.

You’re getting mushy in your old age Coulson, he chided lightly, his heart breaking.

Suddenly, Fury was there, and Phil wasn’t sure if he passed out or his friend had just arrived. Nick was saying something about paramedics, something about not dying, “Eyes on me.”

Phil couldn’t help but smile, hoping it didn’t look like a grimace. It’s okay, he tries to say, They need something to believe in, something to unite them. Let it be me. And he’s not sure how much of his message he gets across, but he hopes it’s enough.

Except the pain isn’t stopping. He isn’t numb all over anymore, in fact his body is burning. It feels like the jellyfish all over again, the aching, think poisonous heat of too much happening at once. He wants to pass out, he fights to find darkness, but all he feels is pain.

It’s in his chest, neck arms, gut, knees, fingers, arches, and oh God make it stop it hurts it hurts so much please make it stop I beg you please end it enditendit…

But it doesn’t stop. Ti sears and it aches and becomes Phil’s entire world down to the faint twtich of his palm, inadvertently grasping at nothing. He stays like that for years, tuned into every single brush of air across his bleached skin, feeling his insides pull and roll and decay.

Then there’s light. White and fresh and cold against his face. He threw himself at the feeling, hearing for the first time in millennia. He couldn’t breath deeply, but it smelled dry, sharp and sick. The voice above him sounded parched but steady, speaking as if to a child and for all Phil knew, he was. It felt like a whole other world. His eyes weren’t open but be could see red instead of black. He clung to the voice, letting it pull him away from the pain. His shoulder ached, his chest ached, and he wanted to cry with relief.

A wide expanse of ice touched his face, held his cheek and he groaned, actually groaned, at the beauty of it. Never in his life had he wanted something as much as he wanted that hand to stay where it was forever and ever. Because it was a hand, he could feel the individual fingers wrapped along his jaw, behind his ear and a thumb brushing along the bottom of his eye socket.

Now he was positive he was crying; the voice had risen in pitch, was getting louder and forming actual words. He heard “Banner” and maybe “back up”, but it was really hard to decipher, it took too much energy and he really just wanted to fall into nothingness again because the hand was gone so there was no reason to stay conscious. A firm voice was saying something and there was beeping, “rising” and “ice” and “get down!”

Then the hand was back, two instead of one this time, and there was cold pressure on his sides, under his arms, between his legs and it hurt, but it wasn’t enough anymore.

“Phil, stay with me okay? Focus on my voice—“

“He’s crashing!”

“Barton get off the bed!”

“You gotta stay conscious, Phil, I need you to stay conscious, I need—“

“Clint! Get down, we’ve got to move him!”

“Fuck you Banner! Phil—“

“Bring him, we can’t wait any longer!”

“Don’t move Barton!”

“Phil! Oh fuck—Phil!”

Clint held his handler’s flushed face as they tore down the hall, only letting go to wipe off the sweat on his hands and grab an ice pack, placing it gently on Phil’s forehead, completely at a loss for what to do. He’d never felt so adrift before, not even when he’d found Phil in some sort of weird coma almost two weeks ago. Clint placed his hand back on the other man’s cheek, al least that elicited a response last time. But now there was nothing but burning skin and dry tear tracks. He ran his thumb across the scorching flesh and stilled on Phil’s lip. 

Because Phil wasn’t breathing.

Clint felt something crack. His mouth became a thin line as he fought down whatever had broken off inside him. His world narrowed until all he could focus on, all he could see, was the man under him. Without warning, Clint raised his fist, and brought it crashing down on Phil’s chest.

“Barton!”

“He’s not breathing!” Clint snapped, pumping Phil’s heart through his mangled chest.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

“Get him a bag!” a doctor shouted and within seconds a mask was on Phil’s face, air being slowly forced into his ruined lungs

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

Someone grabbed Clint around the middle, hauling him off the gurney so a young intern could jump on and continue to pump Phil’s heart as the ever-growing group shoved through a set of swinging doors. Clint wasn’t exactly aware of what happened next, until he was blinking down at a gaping Steve Rogers then dropped to the floor by Natasha who only stared at him, disapprovingly, her arms crossing her chest.

“Take a seat,” Her order brooked no argument. Steve helped him stand and maneuvered him to a chair, then took to standing just within reaching distance, his eyes never leaving the doors, now firmly closed. It was the longest Clint had ever sat still outside an op. The world narrowing feeling never left, only transferred to the doors. A month. He’d thought Phil had been dead for an entire month. By his hand. He felt like he would throw up, forcing himself to breath through it. He remembered the day he’d found his handler, breathing but comatose in a restricted part of Medical. He’d been unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Thinking maybe it was a hallucination, or a body double… He’d been hearing for years SHIELD was working on them… But no, it was really Phil.

Clint had stormed Fury’s office, demanding an explanation, maybe at arrow point from a foot away (he was a little hazy on that bit) and received the news he’d wanted and dread. Coulson was on life support. He was as good as dead and Fury admitted he was only keeping his friend around because he was waiting for a miracle.

“Phil Coulson doesn’t die,” The Director had said, looking beyond Clint to the large shelving unit on the opposite wall, cluttered with books and trinkets, but no photos, “I’ve seen the man come back from worse than this. He’s a fighter, Agent Barton.”

And the way Fury said it, the way he looked at Clint when his eye returned to the archer… It had a coal long thought dead blooming in him. Small and weak, but there. 

Clint hoped.

It was stupid and dangerous. He knew he could be wrong, throwing his eggs in with Fury’s, but the director was very good at never being wrong. And when he was… Clint decided he wasn’t going to think about that. The rest of the team was told and Fury was once again placed on everyone’ shit list. When they arrived at the room Phil was placed in, Clint was already there, his head pillowed in his arms, his eyes never leaving Phil’s face.

The archer rarely left his handler’s side, only going for necessities and once when there was a call. Doombots. You’d think the guy would get more creative. Clint dragged himself back from the mission and right back to his chair, slumping low before starting in on his debriefing before realizing what he was doing. He stopped, mouth opened around an incomplete word, and snapped it shut. He glared at Phil, as if it was his fault he was there, unconscious. Like he could help it. Clint’s heart lurched. He imagined it pulling hard enough to detach itself from Clint and crawl inside Coulson, bringing him back to life. The thought had him deflating, any anger disappearing as quick as it’d come. He just wanted his Phil back. He wanted to see his eyes, his smile… something, anything.

Then his hand twitched.

The motion had Clint on his feet in an instant, knocking his chair over to stare at the offending fingers. Natasha was next to him in an instant, “What happened?”

Clint just pointed, too stunned to speak. Natasha left, returning with a doctor a moment later. The hand twitched again and the doctor smiled.

“What’s it mean?” Clint’s voice was thick to his own ears.

The doctor shrugged, but didn’t look dejected, “I don’t know.”

And now this. It was an hour and a half before Banner joined them again, looking haggard and woozy.

“I need a second,” He said, before anyone could start. They all knew that voice and backed off, except Natasha, who followed the doctor to make sure he was okay. Steve glanced down to Clint, but didn’t say anything. A moment later they were back, Bruce hunched slightly, Natasha just behind him, and suddenly Clint had a name for the shattered feeling.

“Tell me he’s dead,” Clint said, his voice like steel, his gaze zeroing in on the good doctor. Bruce blinked. Natasha and Steve shared a loaded glance.

“He’s not,” Bruce said slowly.

That’s when Clint started shaking, small vibrations that started with his hands, “Tell me I can see him.”

“You can’t,” Bruce replied, “Not yet. But soon.”

Clint pressed his hands together, trying to stop the tremors, “But he’s alive,” the question was there, even if it wasn’t asked.

“We don’t know what spiked the fever,” Bruce said, pulling a seat from the wall to sit in front of Clint. Natasha sat in the seat next to him, her arms crossed and the toe of her boot hooked just behind Clint’s calf, reassuring in pressure.

“Whatever it was we’re going to need to run tests, but his vitals are all right, and the fever seems to have broken for now…” Bruce smiled a little, “And his eyes are moving.”

Clint blinked, not understanding the significance.

“What does that mean exactly?” Steve asked, squatting down to everyone’s level and using Clint’s leg purely for balance Clint was sure. It couldn’t be reassurance. That wasn’t Clint and Steve’s type of relationship.

“It means there’s higher brain function,” Bruce explained, “It means Agent Coulson is dreaming.”

>>> 43

Phil still wasn’t a huge fan of the beach. Being surrounded by dead giant mutant coral on a secluded island wasn’t high on his list either. But lying in the shade, drinking raw coconut milk while Clint scampered along the creatures, retrieving arrows? Relaxing, as it were? That was definitely on the list. Sure his leg was numb from the knee down due to some barb one of the creatures had shot him with, but it wasn’t creeping up the rest of his body so he figured it wasn’t that big a deal. Definitely nothing he could fix just then. His tie was around his thigh as a tourniquet, just in case.

“Quinjet’s 10 miles out, Coulson,” Stark said through the comm, “Do we really need to drag these things back with us?”

“Only pieces of them,” Coulson replied, taking a bite of coconut, “SHEILD wants to know what had them mutating in the first place.”

“Ugg,” Coulson watched a very small red blur corkscrew across the horizon, “Could you imagine the damage if it wasn’t freaking coral that mutated?”

Phil thought of jellyfish and shuddered as Clint dropped next to him. His face was already burnt from exposure, but his smile was blinding. Phil couldn’t help smiling back.

“Jet’s almost here,” Phil informed him.

Clint sighed, staring out to sea, “Good. I hate the ocean.”

Phil blinked, “You do?”

Clint shrugged, “Can’t climb water.”

Phil chuckled, wrapping an arm around Clint’s shoulders and dragging him in to kiss his dusty hair. As the Quinjet set down on the beach, kicking up more sand and releasing it’s load of harried medics, worried Avengers and excited scientists, Phil could say without a doubt he was happy. Sure he had a forests worth of paper work to file, another ruined suit and currently couldn’t walk, but that was his job. He watched Steve, Natasha and Tony stride over, looked down at Clint who just snuggled deeper into Phil’s grip, and smiled, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt he was lucky. 

And yeah, very happy.


End file.
